


Y - like a yawning Yavanna

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: General, Multi-Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 21:50:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3744674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Alphabet of Middle-earth:<br/>Writing Cues for the "Back to Middle-earth Month 2007"<br/><br/><br/>"The Alphabet of Middle-earth" is a series of short cues to inspire you throughout B2MeM.<br/><br/>We invite you to pick up any cue, any time and to post your take as a comment for the relevant entry at the LiveJournal Community "There and Back Again".<br/><br/>Write a drabble, a drouble, a tribble, a quabble or a quibble! Write 100, 200, 300, 400 or 500 words! No matter if it's serious or silly, anything goes.<br/><br/>And here is already the next cue:<br/><br/>Y - like a yawning Yavanna</p>
            </blockquote>





	Y - like a yawning Yavanna

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

_"Sister,  
Sister!    
  
Where are You, Sister?    
Our Festival starts anon!"    
  
Yavanna,   
She-of-fewer-names-than-Varda,  
yawns,   
stretching over Her silken divan beneath Arien's light   
vines trailing after Her fingers,   
ripping through the sheets and erupting   
into a stream of crimson flowers.    
  
Varda   
dislikes   
Yavanna's apartments, She knows, seeing  
Sister's flashing eyes darken at the sight of the  
hanging   
moss,  
the perpetually vine-encrusted furniture, the  
carpet of mushrooms near the door.   
  
Varda   
is  
neat  
orderly  
perfectionistic  
and  
obsessive-compulsive.  
Even  
the   
stars   
are  
evenly  
spaced.   
  
Whereas Yavanna prefers the soft, the   
filthy but comfortable,   
revels  
in unevenness and imbal-  
ance.    
  
"SISTER!"  
  
Kementári rolls Her eyes and  
pops a grape into Her mouth,   
stretching,   
waiting for the divine   
SHRIEKS   
("How irritating She can be!")  
to fade.    
  
When the halls are silent once more, Yavanna  
jumps  
down and looks over the balcony's edge, examining  
affairs Below.    
  
"Interesting," She muses, tracing a dark thread of marble  
on the balustrade, watching  
Olórin and The Scruffy Wanderer   
(her own nickname)  
trading stories beside a campfire.    
  
Idly, she sends a cloud of midges  
to bother Scruffy,   
to nip his neck and give him annoyance,   
all of which gently nurse her grudge....  
  
O, what long-held shame!    
O, what snide comparisons!   
  
"Did You hear that, Sister?    
The Elves have created six hundred more hymns to   
Me!"  
  
"Charming."   
  
"Have You seen, Sister?   
My   
images hangs in palaces from  
Gondor to Mithlond!  
The delightful dears!"   
  
"Quite."   
  
And that final straw...  
  
"Sister, that Ranger, that Aragorn,   
has sworn by   
Me  
to win his love!  
How quaint!"  
  
"...Indeed."   
  
Delightful.  
Quaint.  
Of course.   
  
Did he forget that athelas,   
(his birthright, his power)  
belonged to Her?   
Did he not recall that his herblore  
was Her domain, that  
everything he was famed for  
was from _Her _?  
  
No.   
  
Selfish mortal.    
  
So she spited him with many  
difficulties   
of freezing winters, parched summers, and  
inopportune injuries,   
lazily,  
from her living, leaf-strewn throne.   
  
Ha.   
Ha.    
  
"May you be plagued by them," she thinks smugly, and--  
  
sneezes.    
  
"Oh!"    
  
A seed slips from Her palm,   
white, wrinkled,  
and now covered in Her sacred spit.   
Shaking Her hand in disgust, She flips it   
over the balcony  
towards Arda.   
  
It lands with a tiny "thump" in the southern mountains.    
She peers closer,   
examining the soil, the snow,   
and exhales on it, Her breath causing nearby trees to   
instantly   
grow twenty feet.    
  
She pads back to Her divan  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
falls back into slumber  
  
  
  
  
while Sister's stars wheel   
  
  
overhead,   
  
  
  
  
  
  
time passing,   
  
  
  
dreaming of her forests,   
  
  
  
  
  
  
their peace,   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
her children  
  
  
  
  
on Arda,   
  
  
  
growing from seedlings  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
among harsh soils and  
  
  
  
  
  
  
inconstant rains.    
  
  
  
  
  
Years pass in a blink  
  
  
  
of Her eyes,   
  
  
  
  
  
  
or minutes  
depending on HIS whims  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
and suddenly She awakens,   
yawning wide and blinking away sleep.    
  
In the south, She sees,   
propping her chin on the balustrade,   
there is a to-do over a new king.    
Yavanna is dismissive until--  
"O, by Me!"  
\--she recognizes "king" as "Scruffy."    
  
She is childishly delighted at his new deference, actually  
clapping aloud!    
He worships Her Sister, yet   
kneels   
to these small, rounded beings...  
  
...and what victory is that?   
  
Feeling slightly triumphant,  
she salutes Scruffy-king with a gracious hand--    
  
Wait.   
  
She squints.   
Listens.   
  
_"Lo! here is a scion of the Eldest of Trees!" _  
  
A pause.  
  
She giggles, and watches as Scruffy-king and Olórin  
step  
closer.    
  
An oblique wave of her hand, and  
the soil around the tree loosens, freeing itself  
into Scruffy's grasp.    
  
Yavanna yawns again, watching them   
through drooping eyes.    
  
A celebration, with silken banners  
and rejoicing crowds, thronging the streets  
of the circular city.    
Cups being raised to peace, to   
the king,   
praises to Varda  
("Hmph.")  
for the blessedly clear night.   
  
Lounging balanced on the balustrade  
stretching clear from horizon to horizon,  
Yavanna dips a hand down through the clouds,   
down millions of leagues   
into the city,   
nudging a maiden's heart into lust,   
placing a handsome guard in her path  
and settling back to watch.  
  
(Varda   
likes   
perfect love stories:   
Scruffy's love for the Princess, his quest  
to win kingdom-crown-and-all, his  
hidden heritage.    
Yavanna likes her stories to have  
a bit of color,   
but she usually has them turn out all right.)    
  
"There," she thinks,  
drowsily,  
  
and   
slowly  
  
drifts  
  
  
back into  
  
  
  
  
  
sleep.  _

_\-----_

This is part of a [series](http://astele.co.uk/henneth/stories/chapter.cfm?stid=5559), and will have a chapter for each Queen of the Valar.   


End file.
